You aren't the Only One
by nekocharm
Summary: Misao is jaded with Aoshi's indifference. One shot. AxM.


**You aren't the Only One**  
**Rating:** T  
**Warnings:** "adult" language and insinuated intimate situations  
**Time Frame: **Post-Jinchū Arc  
**Pairing: **AoshixMisao  
**Summary: **Misao is jaded with Aoshi's indifference.  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations owned by others. I own nothing. This is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**Author's note: **This was written for a challenge sort of thing. The theme was "Good Night" and as I thought more about it…this took shape.

It is a plot-less one-shot containing a relatively dark version of Aoshi. Sometimes, I find it hard to write him as anything less than mildly abusive. This is one of those times. This was written in about an hour and I'm not terribly happy with it. But whatever. I used it to sort of help me kick writer's block while working on my current chapter piece, **Stronger**. Also, this is probably my *first* story written in first-person. I'm not much for writing that way, so it also might be my last.

"******" denotes a shift in perspective, though it only happens once and is fairly self-explanatory.

________________________________________________________________________

I would tear the sky down to see him smile, but he hasn't looked at me in weeks. _Why is that? _ I wonder as I stare into my bowl of dinnertime rice, shifting the grains with the tips of my chopsticks. I have yet to take a bite. He won't take his meals with us anymore. Alone, always alone and so damn cold.

Shinomori Aoshi continues to abuse my heart. Fisting it tightly in unkind hands, refusing to relinquish possession. I am continually suspended in torture for him.

"I am sick of you." I murmur, feeling ill as the room trembles in my vision and my companions look up from their own dishes and conversations to fix me with looks of concern.

Wordlessly, I slam my chopsticks to the low table and stand. Nobody disputes my exit, but I feel their gazes burn into my back, pitying me. I am sick of their pity as well.

The darkened hallway that I must travel to get to my room is perilous at night. After sundown, this is where he lurks. He will leave once he sees me. He has no reason to stay. He no longer spends his nights in the Aoiya.

Never one to disappoint with inconsistency, he stands, leaning casually against _my_ doorframe. A flood of pale moonlight streams over his broad shoulders and he is as I have envisioned him all day: a sudden waking nightmare. _Why torture me? Why drag me over burning coals again? Does it amuse you?_

"Misao-_sama_." He bows his head in a cruel imitation of respect, refusing to drop the humiliating honorific even though he has taken his title back now.

"Aoshi." I nod dispassionately, pausing in my stride. _I can be stubborn as well, you see. I will not show you respect. Fuck you, Aoshi-sama._

"Was dinner to your satisfaction?" A frigid smirk.

"---Same as always."

"You're looking thin." He tilts his head calmly, offering me a disinterested look, betraying no emotion. Typical. Aoshi. Infuriating.

_You're looking cruel._

"Some men find that attractive ---" I breathe absently, forcing my eyes from his.

"Do they?" He pretends to think on my words.

This cat and mouse game is endless.

"Come here, Misao." His voice is commanding and my stomach churns.

I shake my head. "Not tonight." I declare, "Go to your temple." I feel as though I am trying to banish a vengeful ghost.

He straightens in my way, a thick, smoky storm begins to brew in his eyes. "'Not tonight?' Are you _ill_, Misao?" His tone is not concerned, but instead bears all the airs of someone asking if a person is in their right mind. He cocks an eyebrow elegantly and reaches for me. Of course, he is not used to being denied.

I have been through this before. It's no longer exhilarating. His touch no longer excites.

"Come _here_." He is forceful but it no longer frightens me. It is to be expected.

"Aoshi," I say softly, pressing my palms against his chest to shove him back as I advance. I can give as well as receive. I will not be his rag doll _tonight_. He retreats a step into the room, if only to check my movements. "I _am_ ill. Very ill, Aoshi."

"I see." He stands his ground, undaunted by my approach. And why would he be? He is nearly twice my size and ten times as strong. He keeps me in front of him, facing him, unable to sidestep. He can see that my eyes are swollen and red; he sees everything in excruciating detail as the moonlight drains the color from the room. "Not only sick," He remarks dully, "but you've been crying as well." He extends a slender hand and forces my face up. "Why would that be?"

"Leave me _alone_, Aoshi." I tear my face from his hand and watch as his deep eyes instantly give into a dark streak.

"Have you been crying for _me_?" He chokes back a mocking laugh.

I glare, unable to express my feelings and glad for it. He would only mock them.

He traces the tips of his fingers over my collarbone, dipping them low across my chest. He speaks again, his voice clipped and cold, "Have I not given you _everything_ you've dreamed of since you were a child?"

"You've given me _nothing_ worth cherishing."

He reels back as though I've slapped him across the face and his eyes become inky slits.

"Ungrateful brat." He snarls.

"Selfish bastard." I retort, closing my eyes wearily, "All I've ever asked of you, Shinomori Aoshi, was that you return the love I've given you so freely all my life. Twenty years, Aoshi. Twenty years of love and you can't offer me one moment in return?"

His narrowed eyes become wider and he squares his shoulder, sets his jaw into a tight, sharp line. I can tell that he is clenching his teeth. I shudder lightly and he approaches me once more, this time, feathering his burning fingertips against a stray swathe of hair in my eyes. He will not respond to my questioning. He never does.

I turn my face, not willing to let him bend my resolve with his gaze.

"My reputation is trash." I say, tensing as he drags his hands over my skin, silent, "You've made me look like a whore." I finish strongly. In years before, my words would have cracked and broken on 'whore' childishly, but I know of it now. What it feels like to be regarded as one.

"_My_ whore." His voice is pitched so low that I have to strain my ears to hear it. Perhaps it was not intended for my ears. "Isn't it everything you wanted?" His lips twist slightly.

I shake my head, knowing it will never get through. "Not tonight." I say once more.

He withdraws his touch from me, "Fine." He hisses, "But tomorrow night ---" He trails off and I catch the meaning instantly.

"Yes," I nod, "Tomorrow night."

"Very well, then." And he tips my head back, pressing an agonizing and painful kiss over my mouth. For several seconds, I can no longer breathe. I become deprived of every human sense and it feels just as forbidden and seductive and dirty as it always has. With his lips over mine, I really am _his_ whore. As I begin to enjoy the contact, he pulls away, a mirthless laugh forced from his broad chest. He shoves roughly past me, into the hallway. "Good night, Misao."

"G---good night, Aoshi." I have to stop myself from adding the 'sama' this time. I forget momentarily why he is no longer worthy of that title.

He takes a few steps and disappears completely, blending with the shadows of the hallway seamlessly. And I feel it is almost as if he'd never been here, if I can ignore the burning pain swelling in my throat and the fresh tears pricking my eyes.

I turn from the door and begin to strip my uniform away, readying for bed. But for far too many drawn out moments, I fretfully pick apart the size and shape of my figure. If only he had never said that I looked thin. I blush and quickly shrug on a sleeping yukata. I no longer want to see the body that dissatisfies him so.

I feel the sorrow grow as I curl into bed, pulling the sheets high around my shoulders, "I am sick of you." I cry into the futon, "So sick." And bitterly, I pray he remains in the shadows, listening. Rationally, of course, I am sure he is long gone.

But as the tears come, flooding my vision with heat and wetness, a soft breeze blows through the open window, carrying with it, the scent of white tea and incense and icy night air. And as it stills once more in my room, I can faintly hear the rustle of cloth on cloth and maybe, I think softly, the slight clink of two kodachis in one long sheath.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to accept unconsciousness.

******

Her small curves are imprinted in my mind. I trace over them endlessly without guilt. I like how fierce she has become. Perhaps there is a bright side to the dark I've been showing her. I like the stubbornness in her and the new will to stand against me, though, I find, on nights like this, it's more than a little irritating. I find myself vexed when she turns me away.

I suck in a sharp breath of air as she undresses and watch her draw slender fingers over the outline of her ribs in the moonlight. Down over her flat stomach and out in either direction to her small hips. She balls her hands into fists and drops them to her sides and I hear her murmuring, tearing herself to pieces. It is beautiful. Her pain is beautiful.

My eyes follow the exposed line of her spine and she reaches for bedclothes, and throws them on angrily. And as I watch her alight with frustration and sadness, I feel the prick at my heart to give her what she's asked for.

'_Twenty years of love and you can't offer me one moment in return?'_

_Absolutely__** not**__. Suffer, Misao. Suffer for loving me._

I watch her crawl beneath the covers and feel a cold pinch of guilt for what I have done. I push it back.

Soft, whispered, heavy with pained emotion, a small cry catches my ears. Broken though it is, every word is clear and every syllable pronounced against my hearing, "I am sick of you."

Sharp pain swells against my ribcage and I shift quietly, turning from that vision and setting my feet for the temple.

_You aren't the only one, Misao._

And I silently pray that her dreams are kinder to her than I have been.


End file.
